


One of us is going to need to die

by bluay (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Any resemblance to persons living or dead or events is purely coincidence, Betrayal, But these ones are, Detective AU, Grandiose fantasies, Infatuation, Internalized Homophobia, Mental Illness, Mind Games, Multi, Not all mentally ill people are evil, Personality Disorders, Police AU, Psychiatry bashing, Romano doesnt know what he wants, Serial Murder, Slurs, Suicide mention, Tag As I Go, Wooops, envy - Freeform, self-harm mention, still a wip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7266607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bluay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I guess it started when I was fifteen and nearly murdered my brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of us is going to need to die

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about taking certain personality aspects of the characters and stretching them to the point of severe dysfunction and illness and this is what happened.   
> The views expressed in this fic are not my own.

_I guess it started when I was fifteen and nearly murdered my brother._

_We were meant to be sleeping but two and a half hours had passed after I lied down in the inky blanket of my bedroom before my aching chest and swirling thoughts got the better of me. I was so confused, I felt almost as though I was walking through a dream... I found myself at my brother, Feliciano's, bed._

_Watching him breathe._

_I can remember that I was thinking about closing my fingers around his neck and squeezing so hard that his face would turn purple. Imagining him spitting as he struggles to breathe..._

_You know, boa constrictors coil tighter and tighter around their prey every time it exhales, until it can't inhale anymore. There was a trap like that in this film I watched once, one of the Saw films- two people were competing to breathe as slowly as they could to not get killed by this machine._

_One of them was going to need to die, and they knew it._

_But I couldn't let him see me! I love my brother too much. I wouldn't have been able to stand the look in his eyes when he realised that I want him dead._

_I did think about using the pillows to smother him. I couldn't make it_ happen _though. It was so strange, like there was an incorporeal wall that was preventing me from going through with it... and, that crushing melancholy that was all throughout me was just bleeding out. My anger dissipated. I waited in his doorway for so long, I was a ghost. I hated myself with every single fibre of my being; the guilt won out and I just went back to bed. There was nothing between the living and the dead, and... I didnt have a body._

Dr Laurinaitis stopped me there. That was three years ago.

I've come a long way since then.

After confessing accidentallyonpurpose to the homicidal urges I had when I was younger (but none of the more recent ones) I was committed to the mental health wing of the local hospital to be treated. They apparently didn't think I was worth tranquillising since I agreed to be admitted but I still got manhandled by this big buff blonde guy. Not that I'm complaining. I mean he had a pretty nice pair of guns, and I consider myself to be the sort of man who can appreciate some nice guns. And his chest...

Anyway, popping lithium carbonate made me feel like someone had poured the entire fucking Gobi desert down my oesophagus every day and putting on two stones of adipose tissue sucked cock too. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy might have helped if my therapist hadn't been an arsehole who said stuff like "you're not a real self-harmer" and couldn't be bothered.

Hospitals are a joke. Like, I wouldn't say I'm one of those paranoid whiny fucks who bitch about "big pharma" or whatever, but lets just be real for a moment: the psychiatric profession is too often just an excuse to torture and experiment on people and the pharmaceutical industry are just corporate bastards who don't give a fuck about pumping you with poison if it lines their pockets.

Let me get you in on some pro tips: you've got to comply with the medications and tell them what they want to hear in therapy. Don't bother hiding the tabs, they'll find them - just take them. After a while, they'll get lazy. They'll make the mistake of trusting you. That's when you can start hiding your meds. You wait, you play along with their charade, you get discharged, you learn to not tell people about wanting to kill people. Or yourself.

Life's a learning experience like that.

I went back to studying genetics, but felt disconnected from my old interest. My few friends didn't want anything to do with me at all anymore since I was officially a nut case after being sectioned. I couldn't relearn how to distance myself from the crushing pain of being deserted and ignored like when I was younger. I started distracting myself with whatever I could. 

I revived the milky-purple mountains on my arms. I smoked a lot of fags (dicks and  cigarettes both.) The course administrators let me do some extra modules and switch some things around and I graduated with a MSc in forensic pathology. 

Now I'm 24 and I've been working with the district police force as a pathologist for a about a year. I just finished my training to work as a detective too. I'm doing pretty well. On those days that I need it, a couple of orgasms, bottles of wine and maybe some time watching something violent online is enough to keep me functioning. (I have a whole bookmarks folder in google chrome that's just rehashes of that "one man one something" trope.)

It gets hard sometimes when I remember why I'm so fucking pathetic and worthless and why I deserveeveryonehatingme, but I've mostly kicked the suicidal ideation and self-harm habit. 

Work helps too. I do as much overtime as I can, because if I'm lucky, I can get to that exhausted state that's like a pleasant numbness. And you'd be amazed at the therapeutic qualities of cutting up bodies.

I guess you could say I've had it mostly together for an unstable piece of shit that spends most of his time looking at corpses. But not long ago, things got a bit more complicated.

I received a body with a ripped-open smile, Joker-style. The chest had these deep tears... the heart cut out, but with the major vessels left mostly intact. There was water damage from the corpse being in the canal for about 6 hours and dark bruises around the neck, indicating strangulation. 

No fibres. No prints.

It was to become his signature as a serial killer.

The _Big Bad Wolf_.

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up with your thoughts i love constructive criticism


End file.
